Las Navas del Marqués

At 1,300 metres, the evening air carries the scent of pine and diesel from the last tractor heading home. Las Navas del Marqués sits high enough to escape the furnace of the Spanish plateau yet low enough to reach in an hour from Madrid’s airport. The village doesn’t shout for attention; it simply switches on its street lamps and lets the granite walls glow.

The first thing you notice is the palace. Palacio de Magalia rises at the northern edge like a Bourbon afterthought—an 18th-century country lodge dropped into pine woods. Goya came here to paint the king’s brother, and the royal coat of arms still hangs above the door, but today the guards have been replaced by a part-time caretaker who may or may not find the right key. Ring ahead; if the state rooms are open (€6, cash only) you’ll get Versailles-style parquet and a whiff of beeswax. If not, the gardens are free and the café in the old stable block does a decent cortado.

Behind the palace the land tips upward into the Sierra de Guadarrama. Way-marked paths start at the stone lion fountain and climb through holm oak and broom to the abandoned granite quarries that built Escorial monastery. Allow two hours for the circuit; the altitude thins the air more than you expect, and the sun is fierce even in April. In winter the same trails turn to quiet corridors of snow—beautiful, but you’ll want micro-spikes once the shadows lengthen.

Back in the grid of granite houses, life centres on Plaza de España. The church of San Juan Bautista blocks out the western sun with its square tower; inside, 16th-century retablos glitter dimly while pensioners mutter responses to a recorded Mass. There is no ticket desk, no audio-guide—just heave open the door and let it shut behind you. The hush is instant, broken only by the clack of the priest’s shoes on the flagstones.

Food is mountain fare: thick bean stews, roast lamb, cheese from neighbouring Ávila province. Restaurante Montecarlo on Calle Real will serve a plate of jamón and a bowl of crisps while you decide on the main course; the house red comes in a plain bottle and costs €2.50 a glass. Locals eat after 21:00; arrive at 20:00 and you’ll have the dining room to yourself, plus a slightly affronted waiter. Sunday lunch is sacred—kitchens close by 16:00 and do not reopen. Stock up at the tiny Supermercado Cristina on Saturday night or drive 15 minutes to El Tiemblo’s Mercadona, open until 21:30.

Summer changes the rhythm. Madrilenios unlock their second homes and the population doubles. Terrazas spread across the square, children career round the bandstand, and parking becomes a competitive sport. Yet even in August you can find silence: walk ten minutes past the municipal swimming pool (€4 day ticket) to the pine fringe where cicadas replace car stereos. The village’s two reservoirs, El Arca and El Pontón de la Oliva, fill with paddle-boarders at the weekend; arrive before 11:00 and you’ll share the water only with grebes and the occasional heron.

Cyclists use Las Navas as a base to attack the mountain passes of the M-505 and the Puerto de Navacerrada. Road bikes whirr past the palace at dawn; by lunchtime the riders are back, comparing gradients over croquetas at Bar El Puerto. Mountain bikers head south on forest tracks that start gentle then lurch into thigh-burning climbs of 10%. Bike hire is non-existent—bring your own and a spare inner tube; the granite shards are unforgiving.

Evenings wind down early. By 22:30 the square empties and the palace is flood-lit like a deserted theatre. British visitors expecting tapas tours or late bars are disappointed; there is one late-night bar, La Muralla, and it shuts when the owner feels like it. Take a six-pack to the palace benches instead—the police drive past but rarely move anyone on. Mobile signal drops to a single bar on the north side of the village; cafés post Wi-Fi passwords on scraps of paper by the till.

Access is straightforward if you’re driving. From Madrid Barajas take the A-6 to Collado Villalba, then the M-601 for 25 km of climbing bends. Buses leave Madrid’s Príncipe Pío station at 09:00 and 16:00, arriving an hour and a quarter later; the return trip finishes at 20:30, so day-trippers need to watch the clock. There is no railway—the old station is now an exhibition hall with faded photos of steam engines. In winter the road is gritted but snow chains are occasionally required; check the AEMET mountain forecast before setting out.

Accommodation ranges from the stately—Posada Real La Flor, a 19th-century doctor’s house with four-poster beds—to functional apartamentos rurales above the bakery. Prices jump during the August fiesta (15–18th) when brass bands parade through the narrow streets and the palace hosts open-air theatre. Book early or stay down the hill in Ávila where convent cells-turned-hotels charge half the rate.

Las Navas will never make the front page of a glossy guide. It offers no souvenir magnets, no flamenco tablao, no infinity pool overlooking a gorge. What it does give is a slice of Spain that still belongs to the people who live there: butchers who remember your order, waiters who refuse to switch the TV from the local fútbol, pine woods that smell of resin after rain. Come for two nights, stay for three, and leave before the weekenders arrive—that’s exactly what the Madrilenios do.